Narseh

The voice, cast through the Other Side, appeared nearby as they were organizing the herb shelves in the healing grotto — or rather, Narseh was organizing, and Justin was just poking around curiously. The moment Narseh sensed the slight trembling of the air — not yet a sound, just the premonition of one, like a faint ringing on the edge of hearing — he knew it was Prince Ardashir, one of the few with this rare farn.   

"Narseh," said the Prince's voice, soft and deep, "is Justin with you? A Threadweaver wants to see him."  

Justin, startled and flustered, dropped all the roots and stems he’d been fiddling with (Narseh clicked his tongue in exasperation).

"What, me? But I... What, right now? Can Narseh come with me?" He asked, addressing the empty space in front of him. Narseh smiled.  

"The Prince won't hear you. If you can’t send a voice through the Other Side yourself, it only works one way."  

"I know," said Justin, somewhat sheepishly. "I said that just in case. What if he can hear us all the time? He is the Prince, after all. After you told me to stop undressing all the women I meet in my head, I can't stop thinking about how I'm like an open scroll to any of you."  

“You must have finally started thinking about something more intricate,” Narseh replied in his most innocent voice, "and now you're not so easy to read."  

Justin really had learned to close himself off somewhat — although, of course, he never mastered the skill of reading other people's mainyu; that required a much deeper connection with the Other Side.  

"My friend, let me tell you," Justin raised his finger in a mock-pedantic gesture, "beautiful girls are the best thing you can think about. I’ll do my utmost to make sure my thoughts are filled with them — and not with how best to sort all these roots and herbs."  

There were no visitors today, and with a few hours of peace to spare, Narseh had decided to organize the medicines by ailment, according to what people came to him: headaches — sweet clover, yarrow, marjoram; burns — an ointment with sea buckthorn or rosehip oil; cough — althea or elecampane root, mint, currant, lingonberry... What's so funny? Everything needed a system.  

Justin asked, more timidly now, “So will you come with me?”  

Narseh looked at him in surprise, then grinned: 

"Are you afraid of Threadweavers?”  

"And you’re not, are you? They're... First of all, if you haven't noticed, they die. They're creepy."  

"I'm afraid of what they might tell me," Narseh admitted, "and of course I'm very curious about what the Threadweaver has decided to tell you. But no one invited me there. The prophecies of Threadweavers are not for other people's ears."  

He’d just realized that the system he’d devised wasn’t perfect. For instance, he had already piled up all the valerian and St John's Wort he had, but those were needed for so many other ailments he hadn’t gotten to yet. And preparing too large a stock in advance was bad too — some of his herbs had been sitting there for a year and a half already, long past their prime…

“Missing something?” Justin asked, following his frustrated gaze. “I’ll go gather it.”

“You’ll gather henbane, I suppose.”

"No, I already know all your hay by heart. I’ll pick as much as you need — you’ll get everything organized, all neat and pretty. Though I still don’t get why you bother. You always find whatever you need anyway. Just please come with me!"  

"Yes, but..." 

The “yes” referred to finding whatever you need, not to come with me, but Justin was already dragging him toward the door.

"What do the Weavers usually tell people? Is it something important?"  

"Not necessarily. Sometimes they speak about grand events, and sometimes it’s trivial. But usually, it’s something important to the person they choose to share the prophecy with. It’s a fork in their path."  

"And they tell you what to choose?"  

"No, they only say what consequences this or that choice will have. Why, do you have any guesses what she will say? Is something bothering you?"  

Justin walked in silence for a while — very unusual for him. Then he confessed:

"To tell you the truth, I keep thinking of that negotiations with Bizanth in Iron Pass..." 

"Not surprising at all. Everyone who knows about the letter is thinking about it."  

"No, you don't understand, I… I literally can’t stop thinking about it. It’s like some kind of obsession. At first, for some reason, it occurred to me that the prince would order me, of all people, to go to those negotiations. Then I thought: no, there’s no point in sending me — I’m a defector for them, a traitor, I’d only anger them… And Prince Ardashir surely understands that better than anyone. And yet I still can’t get it out of my head. What will happen there? Who will be there?”

"Justin..." Narseh said upset. "Of course, deep down in your heart, you’d like to see your own people again, to talk to them, hear your native tongue. It’s natural. You miss your Great City."  

"They’re not my people, to raven with them!" Justin's hand clenched into a fist. "How could you even think... I don't care a damn for the Great City and all its inhabitants..." 

At that moment, they reached the home of the current Threadweaver.  

Prince Ardashir stood at the entrance to the grotto, leaning his back against the wall with his arms crossed, waiting for them. Narseh felt a light touch of "hello" — warm and familiar, like woolen gloves on a frosty evening. His lips curved into a smile, and he sent back a slightly embarrassed “hello” in return. The Prince’s care extended to everyone: the Owl clan, who had lived in these lands for centuries; settlers from other clans; and even complete outsiders like Justin, who had chosen to walk the paths of Arya. There were more and more of them in Eranshahr… Narseh cherished this care and still found it surprising that it extended to him — always too closed-off, too serious, too grim… And yet the Prince had even made him one of his advisors.

Prince Ardashir loved Justin, too, but that wasn’t surprising. Justin charmed people with unnerving ease, and the Prince, always the curious scholar, was eager to ask Justin endless questions about his past life: about Bizanth’s culture, language, and religion — about Jesa, who rejected his fravashi and crucified himself, and about the old forbidden gods; about sciences, about their great blind poet, even about costumes and cuisine. Justin answered as best he could, though he still feared the Prince a little.

Even now, bowing awkwardly, Justin said with a hint of nervousness: 

"My Prince..." 

Ardashir gave him a friendly nod. They entered the grotto. One of the Weaver's daughters, swarthy and red-haired, lifted a canopy of many coloured cords and let them into the bedroom.  

"Since the Prince is here, maybe they’ll let you listen too," Justin whispered to Narseh. "Looks like there’s more excitement here than on a race day at the hippodrome…" 

He was clearly panicking and trying to act cheerful. Only now did Narseh wonder: why, indeed, was Prince Ardashir here? The prophecies of the Threadweavers were meant only for the ears of the one to whom they were addressed. That had been tradition since time immemorial. Then again, who could forbid the Prince anything?

The Threadweaver, wrinkled like a baked apple, lay half-reclined on pillows and furs, her endlessly long hair, white as moonlight, spilled across them. She stared into nothingness, absent-mindedly stroking a skinny, old, balding pet fox curled beside her.

"Come closer," said the Weaver, "let me see you."  

All Arya who reached a great age became Threadweavers for a brief time, and like all of them, the current Threadweaver was blind. Her vision had long been claimed by that incomprehensible something called simply "the Other Side", and her consciousness was slowly following it, about to dissolve completely — a tangle of thousands of worlds, fates and possibilities could not squeeze into the human mind and was quickly burning it out.  

I wonder if she feels the call of the Other Side, Narseh thought — that irresistible pull to slip there forever, so familiar to him...

Narseh went over and knelt beside the cushions; Justin, after hesitating, did the same. The Prince remained standing in the corner.  

The old woman ran her hand across Narseh's face, then Justin's, tracing their features.  

“Little Kestrel... Thank you for easing my suffering for so long,” she said to Narseh.   

“If only I could help more...” 

They both knew that she had long since stepped beyond the point where potions or even the direct use of the healing farn could delay death.

To Justin, she said:   

“And you… There's something I want to warn you about.”  

“They say people like you call upon others when they stand before some important choice," Justin said, "but I don’t even understand what kind of choice I have?”  

“Do you remember this nickname: Daisy?” she asked, and Justin's face changed completely, he turned pale.  

“Who told you that?! There’s no way you could…” 

“Shh. I know that right now you cannot decide whether to ask our Prince for something. Reason tells you it’s not that important; you wonder why it has consumed your thoughts, but that tiny part of you that knows the Other Side understands. And here’s the choice: if you do not ask for this, or if you fail to gain permission, you will never again see her, that girl, in your life. If you do ask, and if he allows it — you will see her; you’ll be able to speak to her, kiss her, save her; and... You will die.”